


In Flagrante Delicto

by Mazarin221b



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Drunken Shenanigans, Experienced Aziraphale, Experienced Crowley, Hand Jobs, Humor, I'm sure there are more tags I could think of, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mostly post show canon really, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Post-Canon, Rimming, Schmoop, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Voyeurism, a lot of religious talk about love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: Or, Five Times They Got Caught, One Time They Didn't, and What Happened After.Aziraphale is so good at this, good at finding all Crowley’s little weaknesses and spinning them into liquid desire, good at slipping under Crowley’s hard edges and prying them wide open and wanting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big props to my darling betas, Chrysanthemum Flowers and Lacuna. It was a joy especially working with Lacuna again after a multi-year break, and she had some fantastic ideas to round this out that I hadn't thought of before. Bless.
> 
> The plan is to update once a day until it's all posted - and it's 6/7 written, about 90% betaed, and clicking right along to be finished right on time. <3

 

“Ohhh, ‘ziraphale,” Crowley slurs, his entire world narrowed down to one specific point: the hot, wet slide of Aziraphale’s mouth on his cock, his fingers twined in the fine, soft down of Aziraphale’s hair.

If being cut off from both Heaven and Hell has this as his eternal punishment, he’s fine with it. Joyful, even. Ready to do it all over again, maybe twice on Sundays just to stick it to them.

Aziraphale had snuck in earlier while Crowley was on the phone, slipping under his desk with an impish smirk and a wink, and Crowley had to quickly end the call before the sharp intake of his breath gave him away to the wine merchant on the other end. There are things you just don’t share, even with a descendant of a man you knew in Greece during the Bronze Age.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale had whispered, then slid his palm up Crowley’s thigh. “Get your trousers all the way off, darling, and let’s see just how much of you I can reach from under here.”

Crowley had whimpered, then immediately terminated the call with an excuse about an urgent call on the other line (++ call waiting. Crowley had received a golden throne for that one.) Aziraphale is so good at this, good at finding all Crowley’s little weaknesses and spinning them into liquid desire, good at slipping under Crowley’s hard edges and prying them wide open and wanting.

He shoves his trousers down past his knees, and Aziraphale takes care of the rest, until he’s half-nude in his chair, legs over Aziraphale’s shoulders, cock deep in his throat and Aziraphale’s finger circling his hole.

“Yes, angel, yesss. Fuck me,” he pants, and just as Aziraphale’s finger slips deliciously inside of him, the television on the wall flickers to life.

“Crowley,” a voice booms.

“Oh shit,” Crowley squeaks in response, his body jerking involuntarily forward, slamming Aziraphale’s head into the underside of his desk. Aziraphale yelps a protest. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers.

“Who in blazes is that?” Aziraphale asks, voice hot against Crowley’s inner thighs, finger still deep inside.

“Ah, hello, Moloch, how - how are you?” Crowley says, for Aziraphale’s benefit. He endeavours not to squirm, but Aziraphale really does have him at a disadvantage, and dear Satan he hopes whatever the demons are seeing in this room, under his desk isn’t part of the view.

“Miserable, of course, no thanks to you and that wretched angel,” Moloch says. “Proper war was on, and then you go...fucking it all up.”

Crowley tries to flick his fingers dismissively. “As we should have. And if you forgot, I said _don’t bother us_. Don’t you make me go back down there with a bucket of Holy Water. I can do it, you know.” Aziraphale gives him a sharp bite on the inside of his knee in some sort of reprimand, and Crowley gasps.

“What the hell are you doing over there?” Crowley freezes as Moloch’s eyes narrow suspiciously. He blinks at Crowley a few times, who has learned very well to stay casually and carefully cool under scrutiny, even if he’s got an angel now two fingers deep in his arse under his desk. Moloch finally shrugs. “Whatever, I don’t care. I’ve been asked to pass along a job proposal. America is working on some ridiculous legislation regarding nuclear warheads and Iran. Go to New York, cause some chaos, and let us deal with the rest.”

Crowley wraps one hand back into Aziraphale’s hair, and glances down to see him delicately lap at the end of Crowley’s cock. Crowley grits his teeth and takes a breath.

“That’s nice, not for hire, have a wretched day!” He snaps his fingers and the screen goes dark.

“You’re _insane_ ,” Crowley hisses. Aziraphale giggles and just slides down on his cock again, mouth working in long, slow pulls as Crowley gasps and writhes between the twin pleasures of his mouth and his hand.

Aziraphale pulls off with an obscene pop. “I don’t care, because they can’t have you.” They lock eyes, Aziraphale’s clear and blue and endless, and Crowley feels that strange little jump in his chest again, that shuddering reminder that his existence carries more grace than he honestly deserves.

Crowley nods, and wonders, distantly, what they thought they could offer him that he doesn’t have right now: his Bentley, his flat, and his… “Angel, oh your mouth, Jesus Christ.”

“He’s on holiday in Malta and isn’t available,” Aziraphale quips. “And I think you’d better come soon, my dear.” Crowley gasps and swears as Aziraphale crooks his fingers _just so._

Crowley grips the armrests of his chair and whimpers; two more deft strokes of Aziraphale’s fingers and yes, there it is, he’s coming, unable to resist when Aziraphale issues such an excruciatingly polite command.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale lifts his head. Crowley looks long gone, his mouth slack and open, breath coming in short pants as he whispers little endearments with every movement. Things like love and devotion and worship, and words entirely too filthy to be reproduced without a blush even in Aziraphale’s own mind, but ones that nonetheless make desire slip hot through his veins._
> 
> _They’re close to the end, Aziraphale can feel the orgasm starting to wind tight in his stomach, when the radio in the corner crackles to life._
> 
> _“PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE,” booms from the speaker._

 

  
It’s not that Aziraphale minded Crowley getting assignments, not exactly.

It’s just that they’d been enjoying this last month in absolute bliss, free (well, mostly free) from the encumbering requests and orders from their various superiors, relaxed and carefree and generally spending all their spare time in one another’s pants. Or shirts. Or, once, in each other’s swimming trunks but Aziraphale would rather they not repeat that particular experiment.

So it’s an odd feeling he gets one evening after Crowley had been absent for a day, off searching for some random part or other for the Bentley; an itching under the skin, a humming sort of awareness of his corporeal body that he can’t seem to shake no matter how hard he tries to distract himself. He finally stops trying to arrange a complete set of Dumas into an intricate, twisting little tower and stalks toward the back room, dissatisfied with himself and everything else.

As he starts the kettle, the small bell over the door chimes. Of course - a customer, just as he was considering closing up shop. He steps out through the curtain and looks, prepared to hurry whoever it is along.

When he sees the tall, lithe form right next to the door his heart leaps. “Crowley, my dear!” he says, delighted. “I was wondering when you’d be back. How did it all go, then? Did you find your...your whatsit?”

Crowley doesn’t say a word, simply turns to the door and locks it, flips the little sign over to “closed” and pulls the shades down over the windows with a quick flick of his wrist. Aziraphale waits, heart hammering in his throat, worry beginning to set in his stomach. Has something happened? Are the Powers that Be coming for them again?

Crowley turns back to him and slowly begins to walk forward. No, not quite walk, that’s too mild a word for what he’s doing, he’s positively _slinking_ , his hips swaying in an exaggerated sashay that Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off of. He swallows as Crowley finally reaches him and leans so close the tips of his fringe tickle Aziraphale’s forehead.

“Miss me, angel?” Crowley says, then tucks a finger behind Aziraphale’s tie and tugs it loose, before tracing his finger up the notch of Aziraphale’s throat. “Because I missed you.”

Aziraphale can feel his wits scatter under the onslaught, Crowley’s prowling seduction almost too much for his heart to take. But as the buzz in his stomach settles into a more recognisable desire, he realises that what he’d been feeling was what humans call _horny_ , for lack of a better word. Repressed. Without release.

No wonder humans spent so much time on sexual conquest. It was like a drug, heady and all-consuming, and the more you had it, the worse the cravings got. Ah well. If he had to be an addict, craving the touch of someone he loved so much was the way to go.

Aziraphale winds his arms around Crowley’s neck. “I missed you terribly, darling.” He tilts his head so Crowley can bend his mouth to the little spot behind his ear that never fails to make him shiver and moan, electric arousal singing along his nerves.

“Good. I hoped you had. What would you think if I just didn’t wait, and took you right here,” Crowley murmurs into his ear, one hand drifting down over Aziraphale’s arse. “Right over your desk. Because,” he starts, then deftly opens Aziraphale’s shirt buttons and presses a kiss to the skin revealed after each one, “you look delectable. I don’t think I’ll make it upstairs.”

Yes, this is what he missed, the hot trail of lips over his chest, talented fingers making short work of his clothes. Crowley steps back just long enough to drop his own trousers and Aziraphale hitches himself up on the edge of the desk and welcomes him between trembling thighs.

“So beautiful, my angel,” Crowley whispers, his body pressed hot and wanting against Aziraphale’s own. “Like splendour around the moon.” Aziraphale can feel his body unfurling, waiting to lay open under Crowley’s ministering fingers. He then hitches his knees over Crowley’s arms, there’s a heavy, blunt pressure, then at once, with a gasp, Crowley is seated inside.

“Oh, that’s… yes. Perfect,” Aziraphale pants, then allows his body to drop back against the desk, head lolling against the wall as Crowley rocks his hips into him, the desk creaking with every thrust. Oh, this is good, Crowley’s cock hitting just the right angle, Crowley’s hand tight around Aziraphale’s cock and stroking. Really, it’s more than good; this is _wonderful_ , and he can’t believe he’d wasted so many, many centuries before realizing just how perfect it could be, the two of them, using the humanity they'd been given to the fullest.

Aziraphale lifts his head. Crowley looks long gone, his mouth slack and open, breath coming in short pants as he whispers little endearments with every movement. Things like love and devotion and worship, and words entirely too filthy to be reproduced without a blush even in Aziraphale’s own mind, but ones that nonetheless make desire slip hot through his veins.

They’re close to the end, Aziraphale can feel the orgasm starting to wind tight in his stomach, when the radio in the corner crackles to life.

“PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE,” booms from the speaker.

They both stop stock still, both panting, covered with a sheen of sweat. Aziraphale swallows. “Do I answer?” he whispers. “Maybe they’ll think I’m not home.”

“What kind of a stupid - of course they’ll know you’re home, it’s not like they can’t figure out where the single angel is on the planet.” Crowley looks pained, and his hips shift just a little, enough to make Aziraphale gasp.

“We know you are there, Aziraphale. This is Raphael. You’re doing unspeakable things with that demon again, so I’ll make this short. As the most experienced representative on Earth at this time, we are requesting your assistance with a negotiation in New York.”

Aziraphale and Crowley look at each other, wide-eyed.

“Short term only, a simple matter of keeping things on the slow and steady between the United States and Iran as we prepare a larger delegation to take over. This caught us all unawares, so we’re a bit behind with briefings, you see. Contact us when you’ve decided. You have one week. We can discuss terms. Also, your dalliances have been noted in your eternal file, not that you seem to care. Good day.”

The radio goes silent. Aziraphale drops his head back against the wall and giggles - that they’d been caught out a second time about the same assignment is too much for him. But then Crowley growls, low and hungry, and Aziraphale gets his mind and body back on the task at hand.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley can feel the fury at yet another interruption by people who were explicitly told to leave them alone build up in his fingertips, ready to send Dagon to the outer reaches of the Sahara, or maybe the South Pole. Or simply discorporate them entirely, let them deal with all the paperwork for once._
> 
> _“Do you mind?” Aziraphale snaps, his tone more irritated than Crowley thinks he’s ever heard it before. “Turn your back a moment, at the very least!”_

 

Crowley watches avidly as Aziraphale carefully pulls a grape from its stem then pops it into his mouth, his lips forming a perfect, pink little “O” that gives Crowley heart palpitations. But they are in public, after all, so Crowley simply admires, considers what might be possible later, and takes a sip of a prosecco that had seen better vintages.

“It’s not that I necessarily mind, you understand,” Aziraphale continues, then takes a sip from his own glass and makes a face. “Oh my, this wine was better in the nineteen twenties. Anyhow. It’s not that I mind doing it, but it sets a bad precedent, you know.”

“We’ve not been to New York since it was a barely-populated backwater, though,” Crowley says. And it’s true. New York being quite capable, even good, at creating sin all on its own, he’s simply admired from afar and not been really needed there. “Could be interesting, a nice little getaway.”

Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow at him. “A vacation? Isn’t that what we’ve _been_ doing?”

Crowley sets his glass in the basket and scoots over on the blanket to rest his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. “No, angel, we’ve been fucking each others brains out for a month, that’s what we’ve been doing.”

Aziraphale turns pink up to the tips of his ears. “Crowley!” he says, scandalized. “We are in the _park_ , there are _children_!”

Crowley turns his head so he can breathe, hot and wet, through the layers of clothes over Aziraphale’s stomach. Damn being in public. But if he just uses his abilities a bit… and there, a small hedge quietly grows around them, surrounding the little copse of trees they’re under. “They’re not going to see us now, though. Come on, angel. Live a little.”

Ariaphale scans the park, eyebrows pulled down into a worried frown. “I know you just put that there, but I still don’t know-”

Crowley hooks a hand around Aziraphale’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss, his lips sweet and wine-tinged, and Crowley _wants_.

“Open your trousers, angel,” he rasps. “I want to blow you.”

“The mouth on you,” Aziraphale says, exasperation tinged with fondness in his voice. He sighs but carefully unbuttons and unzips, and yes, he’s half-hard already. Crowley flips over and settles himself between his angel’s spread thighs and looks up.

Crowley hasn’t even touched him yet but Aziraphale looks euphoric, his face a picture of bliss, eyes closed and head tipped back. The sun filtering through the treetops limns his curls with an ethereal radiance, the physical manifestation of his holiness reminding Crowley that yes, he is as wondrous and beautiful as humans have always imagined angels to be. It’s impossible to look away from a sight so exquisite.

Aziraphale opens his eyes. “Well, are you going to get on with it or not?” he says, his voice carrying just enough of the edge of bitchiness that made Crowley fall in love with him in the first place. But the spell is broken, and Crowley, honestly, is a bit relieved.

“Never stop complaining, do you,” Crowley says, then takes him in deep, the head of Aziraphale’s cock bumping the back of his soft palate. It’s a good thing he doesn’t have a gag reflex, really; taking Aziraphale’s cock down his throat is one of Crowley’s favorite pastimes, and it would be hideously inconvenient if he couldn’t do it without choking.

“Look at you, you exquisite creature,” Aziraphale coos, his hand carding through Crowley’s hair as Crowley works, alternating deep, long pulls with his mouth and teasing licks with the flat of his tongue. Crowley loves the look on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley lets his cock just push at his lips until it slips in, the soft head teasing and probing until Aziraphale breaks and finally begins to fuck his mouth.

Crowley is just about to suggest Aziraphale get his trousers down a bit further when there’s a rustling behind him, a crack that sounds hideously like branches being moved aside. Crowley swears and quickly pulls off and lays his head in Aziraphale’s lap, covering everything he can, desperately hoping whoever it is doesn’t see too much.

“That’s disgusting,” Dagon says. “One of them, really? Knew you was a freak, Crowley, but honestly. Make your dick fall off, I bet. Just wait.”

Crowley can feel the fury at yet another interruption by people who were explicitly told to _leave them alone_ build up in his fingertips, ready to send Dagon to the outer reaches of the Sahara, or maybe the South Pole. Or simply discorporate them entirely, let them deal with all the paperwork for once.

“Do you mind?” Aziraphale snaps, his tone more irritated than Crowley thinks he’s ever heard it before. “Turn your back a moment, at the very least!”

Dagon sighs but turns around, and Aziraphale struggles to button himself back into his trousers. Crowley mouths a silent “I’m sorry” at him, but Aziraphale simply touches his cheek gently and smiles, sunny and forgiving almost immediately.

Crowley turns over on the blanket and leans back on his elbows. “What could you possibly want now?”

Dagon turns around, and they look relieved that everyone is decent again. “Moloch said he’d set out the proposal, but not the terms. Idiot. Nothing but fighting on the brain, that one, not that I blame him. We’ve got thousands of demons still itchy for an argument, and we’ve got a plan to deal with it, without it all going tits up, if you know what I’m saying.”

Crowley frowns. “Not precisely, but let’s just say I do. What terms are you talking about?”

“We need that situation with Iran and the US to get tense, if you get me. Give everyone something to do, to get them all good and ready for a war. Rumour has it that the opposition will have just enough to counter, so everyone gets to work off their battle readiness but no one gets obliterated. But we’re counting on you to set it all up, if you’d be ever so kind.” The last is almost a sneer. “In return we will ask no further favours for at least five hundred years.”

Five hundred years? That’s one hell of a vacation. He glances over at Aziraphale, whose eyes are just as wide as Crowley’s own.

“So, New York, you say?” Crowley asks, and tries to play it as cool as possible. No sense letting anyone know that they’ve offered you something that you really want.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale can’t say no - not when Crowley breaks so beautifully, back arched and begging. It makes Aziraphale flush with heat, to give Crowley what he wants, to be so generous and giving and simply take care of the hell-sent creature that has become the center of his world._

Aziraphale settles his ear more solidly against the steady thrum of Crowley’s heart, contentedness washing through him like a wave. It’s rare for him to feel… not sated, exactly, but satisfied, absolutely convinced that for all the heavenly grace he’s gifted with, that this is what makes him whole: lying skin to skin with Crowley, his head on Crowley’s chest, Crowley’s arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“The thing is, I just don’t like America all that much,” Crowley rumbles, his voice carrying the same quiet satisfaction. “And every time we go, we always fuck it up.”

Aziraphale gasps. “I beg your pardon, I know for an absolute fact that Roswell was all you. I wasn’t even in the country then.” To be fair, this is the one and only time Crowley was in the United States without Aziraphale; to Crowley’s credit, he was absolutely correct that the two of them usually did, in a manner of speaking, fuck it up six ways from Sunday when they were tasked with the same sort of mission.

It's not that they don’t know what they’re doing, exactly, it’s just that America in all its goodness is also the most extreme of all things: The meanest, kindest, loudest, most obnoxious, gluttonous, generous place that exists, and Aziraphale just didn’t know what to do with all that excess. Neither did Crowley, who had, on one memorable occasion, been completely outfoxed in a casino by a card sharp that Crowley insists must have been another demon in disguise.

“Ugh, that’s not the point, angel,” Crowley groans. “My point is, I don’t like it. Sounds suspect, somehow, and we’ll bollo - I mean, we’ll somehow mess it up, and then we’ll be in for it.”

Aziraphale traces his fingertips over Crowley’s stomach. “You’re being paranoid. I looked into it, and the discussion about the treaty is absolutely above board.” He dips his finger into Crowley’s navel, and Crowley shivers. This is the loveliest part of it all, really, the slow burn of desire that never seems to be quite extinguished, a simmering heat that leads to quiet, whispered words and slow touches and long, drawn out moans and sighs as Aziraphale pours every drop of his love and devotion into the movement of his body against Crowley’s.

“You’re trying to distract me.”

Aziraphale smiles, then slips his hand under the sheets to run his fingers down the hardness there. “Would you like me to stop?”

“Not a chance. C’mere, angel. Let me kiss you.”

Aziraphale props himself on one elbow so he can press featherlight kisses to Crowley’s mouth, short, teasing little nips and licks that leave Crowley breathing hard and rutting against Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale doesn’t tighten his hold, simply keeps stroking with just the pads of his fingers.

“Please, angel,” Crowley moans. “Being so cruel to me.”

“Am I? Oh dear, that’s unfortunate. But are you going to be good for me, darling?” Aziraphale hasn’t quite been so purposeful with this sort of thing before, but he can feel Crowley’s need for it in the way Crowley melts under his stronger touches sometimes, when he begs for Aziraphale to hold him down. A little direction seems to make him happy, so Aziraphale will most definitely provide.

“So good, angel, I promise,” Crowley says, head thrown back on the pillow. “Just tell me what you want, I’ll give you anything. Anything. Moon and the stars and the...the universe. Oh, my angel, keep touching me, please.”

Aziraphale can’t say no - not when Crowley breaks so beautifully, back arched and begging. It makes Aziraphale flush with heat, to give Crowley what he wants, to be so generous and giving and simply take care of the hell-sent creature that has become the center of his world.

“Just feel me, my dearest.” Aziraphale tightens his hold and presses his thumb to the underside of Crowley’s cock, making him whimper. “Yes, that’s it.” The room is silent save for the susurrus of Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s cock, Crowley’s sharp breaths, and Aziraphale’s quiet words.

“My love, oh my dearest love. How I’ve wanted you. This past month has been a dream.”

Crowley starts to hiss through his teeth, a sign that he’s very, very close, his amber eyes half-closed as he nears the peak. Aziraphale considers drawing it out just a tiny bit longer, luxuriating in more of those sounds, in the scent and heat of it all, but he knows payback can be its own exquisite torture later, and demons have long, long memories.

“Oh, oh, ‘Zira, I’m there,” Crowley pants, and yes, there in a heartbeat, Crowley is coming over Aziraphale’s hand, the fluid blood-hot and pooling on Crowley’s stomach.

Aziraphale sighs and tucks up against Crowley’s side before Crowley flicks his fingers and cleans up the mess. Crowley kisses his forehead and pulls him in tighter.

“My word, you’ve gotten good at that,” he says, voice a bit sleepy. “Gimme a second an’ I’ll repay the favour.”

“Is there any possible way you could wait,” a voice says from the corner. Aziraphale yelps, Crowley springs up and almost instantly has a knife in his hand, and the both of them stare at the person who has appeared silently in Crowley’s bedroom.

The Archangel Michael.

“How the...how on Earth did you get in here?” Crowley demands, then turns to Aziraphale. “I can kill her now, right? I mean, this is _my bedroom_!”

“Oh, of course not,” Aziraphale snaps, exasperated. This is the fourth time they’d been interrupted and he’s about had it. “Please, explain yourself.”

Michael’s lips twist in distaste. “You’re lucky I didn’t interrupt sooner, Principality,” she sneers, and Aziraphale blanches at _just how long_ she might have been there, watching.

“In the past, I would recommend casting you out for this, this… fraternization, but we know that hellfire won’t destroy you as it is anyway. But I advise you tread lightly, for She is always watching.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “That is between the Almighty and myself. What, precisely, do you want?”

Michael sits on the small ebony chair in the corner of the room and crosses her legs. “It was made clear through backchannels that your acceptance of the offer to go to New York was likely contingent on some kind of in-kind service. I’m authorized to provide you the same deal, 500 years of non-contact in exchange. This skirmish is critical to maintaining some level of balance. Having 10 million angels ready for war and then war not coming is bound to create some...discontent in the ranks.”

Aziraphale blinks. Five hundred years. He and Crowley could be all to themselves for another five hundred years. No assignments, no reports, no briefings, no rules. Just five hundred years of blissful existence with his love, his Crowley, doing whatever they choose, whenever they choose it. The possibilities make him dizzy.

Aziraphale reaches for his robe on the end of the bed and slips it on. Crowley, he notices, is still holding a knife, a wicked thing of black obsidian blade and twisting, serpentine handle. Aziraphale reaches over and plucks it from his hand.

“I wanted to use that,” Crowley complains. Aziraphale ignores him.

“We have to discuss it. I’ll contact you via the circle once it’s decided. But I warn you, Michael. We are only our own, and I’ll not have Heaven or Hell interfering.”

Michael gives him a long, appraising look. “That,” she says, carefully, “has been made abundantly clear.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley looks fondly at Aziraphale’s golden curls, dark tipped with water and smelling like sunlight. His very own angel, loving him for all his faults, or perhaps in spite of them, never seems to hold his past deeds against him._

 

Crowley polishes the shining black blade of his favourite knife and places it back in the bedside drawer, ever so slightly miffed. He wasn’t joking; he’d have discorporated Michael without pause if Aziraphale hadn’t been there to stop him. The obnoxious twit, showing up right in his bedroom, _watching them_ of all things. Well, they all deserved it, whatever they saw.

The whole week has been so frustrating, nothing but constant interruptions, demons and angels alike popping up at the most inconvenient times imaginable. All Crowley wants is to go back to their cocoon of Earthly bliss, when he could nail Aziraphale through the mattress without so much as a noise complaint from the neighbours.

“I _am_ sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says, leaning in the doorway. “But I couldn’t let you do it. Michael has more backchannels and spies than you know, and she’d have absolutely set them on us, just to be annoying.”

Crowley sighs. “I know, but…” he trails off, just as he looks up and realizes that Aziraphale isn’t wearing his usual clothes. Not even his robe, but something even more alluring, something Crowley hadn’t seen in over a thousand years.

“Been a while since chitons were in style, eh?” he asks, then steps fully inside the room and does a little spin. The chiton itself is ivory linen, the edges embroidered in gold and silver, and the strong, gorgeous legs Aziraphale was blessed with are set off perfectly by the skirt, which lifts ever so slightly as he turns. Crowley’s mouth goes dry, because now he can see the bare, rounded arse cheeks underneath.

Wow, Sparta really had the right idea when it came to clothing.

“What’s-” Crowley croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, then slinks across the room and kneels on the bed, next to Crowley, “I thought perhaps we could indulge a bit, like the old days. Relax in the bath. You’ve got that absolutely enormous tub, and such a shame it’s hardly ever used.”

Crowley slides a hand up Aziraphale’s thigh, under his chiton. The muscle is tight and his skin is warm, and Crowley wants nothing more than to flip that skirt up and have him, right here. But Aziraphale is right, they’ve been on edge now for a week, constant interruptions leaving them both a bit tetchy, so Crowley allows Aziraphale to take his hand and lead him to the bathroom.

When he opens the door, though, it’s a place transformed. Aziraphale has to have miracled most of this; the large, rectangular marble tub was most certainly his, but the stylized bronze spout pouring steaming water from the wall into a fragrant bath most certainly was not. Nor were the hibiscus and fig trees in planters all around the room, and the bronze lanterns glowing with low, flickering light. Crowley blinks.

“Is it too much?” Aziraphale asks, fussing with a tray filled with cheeses and fruits and nuts, and a jug of wine. “I just thought...well. I thought we could use a few moments to simply be.”

Crowley snaps his fingers and they’re both naked. “I couldn’t have set up a better temptation myself, angel,” Crowley says, then proceeds to offer Aziraphale a hand over the side and into the tub, before he slips in to settle behind him. The water is just on the edge of being too hot, the smell of orange oil overwhelming his senses, and he sighs, content, Aziraphale leaning against his chest and idly playing with Crowley’s fingers where they’re splayed over his knee.

This is what existence should be, truly. The warmth and affection of someone who loves you, regardless of who they are or what side they started on. Aziraphale lifts a slice of pineapple to Crowley’s lips and he takes it, savouring the sweetness before then capturing Aziraphale’s wrist and licking the juice from his fingers.

Aziraphale gives him one of his happy little sighs. “Now, let’s relax, have a nice glass of wine, and think of Rome, shall we? Remember when the goats got loose in Titus Andronicus’ garden? I always thought that must have been you.”

Crowley protests. “No, I might have mentioned once that it would be funny, angel, but I certainly never expected anyone…”

And it goes on like this, memories and experiences shared and exchanged, Crowley learning more about Aziraphale’s time in Rome than he’d ever known before. About his work with the Colosseum and the gladiators there, about how he’d spent a month disguised as a guard, trying to procure pardons or other releases for those brought to fight in the arena. Crowley himself had spent much of Rome in wanton hedonism. He didn’t care much for the Games; stupid waste of people, in his opinion, and no one got to score any points for heaven or hell with them. So as far as he was concerned he’d ignored them entirely, letting whatever happened, happen. Not so Aziraphale, who doesn’t, even now, seem at all disappointed at whatever role Crowley played in Rome, no matter how terrible it might have been.

Crowley looks fondly at Aziraphale’s golden curls, dark tipped with water and smelling like sunlight. His very own angel, loving him for all his faults, or perhaps in spite of them, never seems to hold his past deeds against him. There’s a pause in the conversation and it all grows quiet, the water splashing down into the tub a soothing backdrop of sound. Crowley closes his eyes.

“I have never loved anything or anyone like this, Aziraphale,” he says, quietly. He keeps his eyes closed as he says it, heart too full and ready to burst, and the reality of this, the quiet moment Aziraphale has stolen for the two of them, makes him ache with its perfection.

Aziraphale’s fingers slip between Crowley’s and squeeze, hard, and Crowley swears he can hear a delicate sniff. “And I love you, my Crowley,” Aziraphale says, then turns in his arms to kiss him, simple and slow, their mouths soft and sweet and gentle. Crowley wasn’t made for this, wasn’t made for the amount of love that’s radiating from Aziraphale’s being. It’s almost painful, that love, but he’s ready to accept it, accept all of it.

“I want to ravish you, my angel,” Crowley whispers against his lips. “Take you to bed and simply devour you.”

Aziraphale blushes, but then he shifts to climb out of the water, holding a hand out to Crowley in invitation. Crowley takes his hand and steps out, and Aziraphale quickly dries them both with large, fluffy towels. Crowley savours the feeling of being pampered, then follows as Aziraphale leads him back into the bedroom. He watches avidly as Aziraphale climbs onto the bed and lies back on the pillows, an open invitation to debauchery if he’s ever seen one. Crowley licks his lips and can’t decide where he wants to start: the rosy apple of his cheek, the flushed pink nipples, the soft little dimple over his hips, or his cock, already hard and leaking.

“Oh for - stop staring so,” Aziraphale complains. “I really do wonder sometimes if you would devour me, if I allowed it.”

Crowley positively slithers onto the bed and between Aziraphale’s thighs. “Only one way to find out,” he growls, before he places a deep, sucking kiss on Aziraphale’s inner thigh. Aziraphale arches and gasps, and Crowley does it again, to the other leg, and it leaves Aziraphale trembling.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “But I was only joking - ”

Crowley noses upward and licks at Aziraphale’s balls, taking one into his mouth and laving it with his tongue. My, but these heavenly bodies did come well equipped, didn’t they? Delightful. “I wasn’t,” Crowley replies. “Turn over on your knees and spread your legs for me, angel.” The sight of it, of Aziraphale being so beautifully trusting like this, leaves Crowley dizzy. He’s definitely got to make this kind of thing worth his while, so Crowley leans in and lets his breath ghost hot and wet over Aziraphale’s perineum, then his hole, and watches it flex in surprise.

Aziraphale groans. “This is new,” he breathes. “I’ve had offers before, of course, but never let anyone - oh!”

Crowley licks him from his balls to his tailbone, Aziraphale’s entire body twitching with one surprised jerk as he does. So Crowley does it again, and again, until Aziraphale is trembling beneath him, then he starts in earnest, pressing his tongue against the pink sweetness of his hole and feeling it relax under his ministrations.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whines. “Stop teasing. I need you so badly, my love. Please.”

Crowley could very easily kneel up and push straight in, fuck Aziraphale until he’s spent and senseless, but he’s perfectly happy where he is right now, so he simply keeps licking him, adds his hand to the proceedings and tries to jerk him off at the same time.

It’s beautiful, the noises he makes, the little gasps and whines and exclamations, and Crowley is nothing if not greedy. “I want you to come on my lips, angel,” he says. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Show you just how much you mean to me. How much I need you.” He dives back in and Aziraphale’s little noises turn into desperate whines.

“We were told we’d find you in here,” a frighteningly familiar voice says, and Crowley groans, right there against Aziraphale’s arsecrack.

“That seems… that’s not quite what those parts are for, though, is it?” says another and Aziraphale flips over as fast as he can and whips the sheet up over himself. Crowley refuses to be subdued, simply scoots back on the pillows and drags the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Lord Beelzebub. Gabriel. Thought we told you all to bugger off.”

Beelzebub sneers, the fly on his head looking almost as pissed off as Crowley feels. “I can’t say I’m surprised, Crowley. You always were a pain in our collective arses, never doing things the way they ought to be done.”

“Please, Beelzebub, allow me,” Gabriel interjects, hands raised in what Crowley assumes to be an attempt to be placating. “Hello. Sorry to interrupt, as it were, but well, sometimes you just have to. You two are the only ones placed to deal with this Iran thing, so if you could just see your way to helping us out here, you’d have our eternal thanks.” Gabriel smiles in that fake way he has, where he shows too many teeth and every word that comes out of his mouth is so insincere as to be flat out lies. Rather despicable for an angel.

And to top it all off, he tried to murder Aziraphale. Crowley hates him, the kind of hatred fueled by the fires of hell itself.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley whips his head around at the note of impish consideration in his voice - a sign that means he’s already figured out something really good, “you both offered 500 years, so let us say 1,000 years of complete and total silence from either of you.”

Oh, he was right. Aziraphale was so good at this. Must be all these centuries of Crowley’s own influence. “Yeah, what he said,” Crowley adds, then allows himself a yawn and a stretch, just to piss them off. Gabriel rolls his eyes. Aziraphale smiles indulgently at him and pats his knee.

Gabriel and Beelzebub look at each other, considering, having a silent sort of conversation that Crowley can’t read. For two bloodthirsty adversaries, they certainly communicate well.

“Very well,” Beelzebub says. “We will no longer interfere in your...affairzzz, for one thousand years. Now, are you going to America or what?”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, locking eyes with him, and they both say “Yes,” simultaneously.

Gabriel heaves a gusty sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. Can’t imagine what I was going to tell the Almighty otherwise. We assume you’ll wish to establish your cover story. We will provide your flight details, Aziraphale.”

“Only if Crowley comes with me,” Aziraphale says quickly. He always has disliked aeroplanes. If he were going to fly, he always told Crowley, he’d much rather do it himself. Why they won’t just let him miracle himself to America is completely beyond his understanding.

“Of course, angel, I know how much you hate flying by yourself,” Crowley says, then nuzzles into his neck. “You brilliant little negotiator.” Aziraphale giggles, and Crowley relishes the gagging sound he can hear from Beelzebub in the corner.

“Fine, then, we’ll make arrangementzz,” he says, then sighs. “I can’t believe that the agents of Below are having to coordinate this closely, but that’s the modern way, isn’t it?” Gabriel shrugs, as if to say “Yeah, what can you do,” and the two of them simply vanish into thin air.

There’s a strange, dense smell in the air, part fire and brimstone, part… something else. Not quite flowers, but something as sweet. It’s an odd combination, honestly. Crowley gets up and throws open his bedroom windows to let the room air out. The sounds of the London traffic outside drift up, reminding him that yes, they really are still of the human world, and are likely to be so for at least another millennium.

“The evening light is very fetching on you, my dear,” Aziraphale calls from the bed, a sweet, inviting smile on his face. “Why don’t you come back and let me show you how very much I enjoy it.”

Crowley looks at Aziraphale, at his pale golden splendour wrapped up in Crowley’s dark sheets, and decides that a thousand years of this will never, ever be enough. But now’s as good a time as any to try that theory out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“But they said, darling. A thousand years. And you’ve not touched me in an entire week, you paranoid snake. I’m feeling a bit put out, to be honest.”_

 

  
“Nope, can’t do it, ‘ziraphale,” Crowley slurs, then trips over his own feet and lands on the hotel bed. They’d made it to New York after a harrowing eight hours stuck inside the plane, after which Aziraphale had decided he needed a drink and Crowley decided he needed five. Or ten. Could be more.

“But they said, darling. A thousand years. And you’ve not touched me in an entire week, you paranoid snake. I’m feeling a bit put out, to be honest.”

“No, nononono, precious one, don’t feel bad,” Crowley says, then rolls over and puts his head in Aziraphale’s lap. “I still want you like, all the time. _All the time._ But they’re watching, you know, gonna just barge in here right when I’ve got my cock out, make it go all limp and wrinkly.”

Aziraphale sighs. This is absolutely not how he’d hoped his first night in New York in almost two centuries would go. A little supper, a little walk through Central Park, and a long, passionate night in their enormous bed at the Waldorf Astoria was more his thought, but then here they were instead, Crowley rolling off the bed, throwing open the balcony doors and striding stark naked out into the night.

“Hear me, you fuckers?” he yells. “You’re not gonna catch Crowley with his pants down again, no, not ‘till I know the job is good and done and you can’t back out!”

“Get back inside, you lunatic, and close the door!” Aziraphale snaps. He’s going to get them kicked out and they’ll end up lodging at some terrible Super 8 or something. “Please, Crowley, my darling, my love, I beg you. Come inside.”

Crowley spins around and swaggers in. “Know what I wanted to do to you when we got here, angel?”

Aziraphale’s ears perk up. Now they were getting somewhere. He pats the bed next to him and Crowley weaves over and flops down, head in Aziraphale’s lap again. “I’d love to know,” he says, tracing his fingertips over Crowley’s bare shoulder. “Will you tell me?”

“Was going to take you to the park, right out by the lake. Was going to give you a ring ‘n everything. Proper romance. So you’d stay with me, yes?”

Aziraphale’s eyes start stinging. “Oh Crowley darling, were you?”

“Yep. I mean, can’t do it in a church or whatever, but still, ‘The two have been made one flesh,’ that’s us, you know? ‘No man … no ange… demon… no anywhatsit can put asunder’ and all that. Then was going to bring you here and slowly peel off your clothes, get you good and ready for me.” Crowley’s voice goes dark and heady under all the drink. “Then I was gonna ride you ‘till you came, then do it again.” He grins up at Aziraphale, his eyes hazy with alcohol, but so, so happy with himself. He’s definitely going to regret spilling the beans when he sobers up, Aziraphale knows, so he simply grins back at him and kisses him quickly. Ridiculous demon.

“Well, then, we’ll have to try it out once we’re finished with the mission and you’re less obnoxiously paranoid. Now, climb under the covers darling, and you can sober up when you want to.”

“I’d blow you but they’re gonna be watching,” Crowley mumbles as Azirphale tucks him in. “Soon as we’re done, though, gonna nail you through the bed. Make you come like, six times.”

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale says. Crowley hugs a pillow and closes his eyes. “Don’t forget to sober up or you’re going to have a terrible hangover.”

Crowley flaps a dismissive hand at him and Aziraphale just shrugs, then settles into a chair on the balcony with a book and a glass of good whiskey, blissfully unaware of the two minor deities, one heavenly and one hellish, on the rooftop opposite, arguing with each other as to who was going to wield a pair of rather high powered binoculars, and who was going to send the messages to Above and Below. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now don't forget - we've got a whole chapter of "What happened after" to go!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He smiles, a soft, gentle thing, a smile Aziraphale has so rarely seen over the years, and never as often as now. “And you’re right. A thousand years is a long time. Not too long for us, but a long time. And you...well.” Crowley removes his glasses and steps closer to look Aziraphale in the eyes. Azriaphale is mesmerized, petrified, worried he might say any number of stupid things that could break the desperate tension he can feel wrapping around his heart. “My angel,” Crowley says, and takes his hand. “You are mine, aren’t you?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this ridiculousness, and thank you to Lacuna, without whom this chapter would not exist. It was supposed to be a 5+1, people, not a 5+1+1. But she knew what I'd forgotten - jokes are only funny if you get the payoff after. :)

  
“I have to admit, the entire situation turning on figs, of all the things, wasn’t what I expected.” Aziraphale spears the last of his mushrooms in herbs and butter, pops it into his mouth, and sighs happily. They were seated in the Dickens Alcove at Delmonicos, a restaurant that had just barely opened as a backwater tavern the last time they were in New York, and now he was seated in the wine cellar that had been underneath that tavern, expanded and added to over the last one hundred and eighty years into an impressive bottle collection housed behind glass walls.

Crowley smiles and takes a sip of his wine. “It’s just like down Below to not appreciate the power of a simple ‘reply all’ button. I’ve been telling them for years to be more subtle, but no, they think they have to do things the hard way.”

“I wouldn’t say that starting a trade war over figs because someone ‘accidentally’ forwarded an email from the president of a food company looking for alternative sources for fig newtons is exactly what I’d call simple.”

Crowley shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it? Now they’re all fighting, but no one is launching nuclear warheads, Above and Below get their big argument to keep it all in line, and we, my angel, are off scott free for a thousand years.”

Aziraphale beams. It was really inspired, requesting both parties give them a thousand years of breathing space. One of his better ideas, if he does say so himself. But now they’re finished, the job is done (and for once, done well; being independent contractors, as it were, seems to work well for them), and it’s time to reap his reward. Their reward. Crowely had mentioned some fairly interesting ideas regarding that promised next thousand years the other night, and Aziraphale wants to hear them again, but this time sober.

Crowley takes another sip of wine and daubs a piece of bread into the leftover gorgonzola sauce on his plate, and doesn’t seem to be in any kind of a hurry to leave. Aziraphale drops his napkin on his plate, resolution filling his soul, straightening his spine and lighting a decisive fire. The chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes back from the table.

Crowley eyes him with confusion. “No dessert and coffee? Why are you standing up?”

Oh, yes. Dessert. Well, there were more important things he needed to do at the moment, but he is definitely coming back for the chocolate mousse. Aziraphale snaps his fingers and the cheque is taken care of, before he holds out a hand in invitation. He’s certainly in no mood to wait around and see if Crowley might get up the nerve to follow through on his drunken confession, but now he’s going to have to work up the nerve himself.

“Walk with me?” he says, as Crowley takes his hand and Aziraphale helps him rise from the table. “It’s a beautiful night, and I’d like to spend it outside, with you.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lift over the tops of his dark glasses. “Absolutely, angel. Anywhere you want, you know that,” he says, and they leave Delmonicos and hail a cab over to the Park, Aziraphale tucked into Crowley’s side as they slip through the city streets, lights flickering over the cut of Crowley’s jaw, his exquisite cheekbones.

It is a beautiful night in the park, the sort of soft, warm, liminal space that tugs at the heart, drags forward the sorts of things that are usually never spoken aloud. Aziraphale can feel the heart in his human chest begin to speed, nervousness starting to overwhelm him as they walk. He’s not entirely sure what, if anything, he wants to say or do, but it feels vitally important to him that they’re here this night, that they find a quiet moment away from their bed to sort out what happens next.

“A thousand years is a very long time,” Aziraphale starts.

Crowley stops to lean on the railing of the little bridge they’re crossing and look out over the water. “It is. And since you already know I’ve got it, here.” Crowley holds out his hand, and Aziraphale opens his palm directly underneath. Into his hand falls a ring, a thing of worked gold and emerald, a piece almost as old as time itself.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes. “How -”

“Subtlety is not really your strength, Aziraphale, you know that. But don’t worry, I remember the other night, as absolutely bombed as I was.” He smiles, a soft, gentle thing, a smile Aziraphale has so rarely seen over the years, and never as often as now. “And you’re right. A thousand years is a long time. Not too long for us, but a long time. And you...well.” Crowley removes his glasses and steps closer to look Aziraphale in the eyes. Azriaphale is mesmerized, petrified, worried he might say any number of stupid things that could break the desperate tension he can feel wrapping around his heart. “My angel,” Crowley says, and takes his hand. “You _are_ mine, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale chokes back a sob and nods as Crowley carefully places the ring on his finger. Aziraphale wraps his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulls him in until they’re a breath apart, foreheads touching. “I honestly don’t know what to say,” he whispers.

Crowley chuckles. “You’re supposed to say yes, angel.”

“Yes,” Azriaphale says, then, more strongly, “Yes!” His voice echoing from the water and across the small valley. He laughs openly, and wraps his hand around Crowley’s arm. Crowley pulls him back in to kiss him, lips warm and soft, and igniting a fire in Aziraphale’s heart that demands fuel, demands to be flared higher until it consumes them both. “Take me back to the hotel, darling,” he murmurs against Crowley’s lips.

“With pleasure,” Crowley replies, wiggling his eyebrows. They hail another cab and fall into the back seat, a different kind of tension simmering in the space between them. Aziraphale stretches out his fingers and just touches Crowley’s thigh, that tiny point of contact sizzling along his nerves and making the ride to the hotel feel just that much longer.

Aziraphale has just paid the cab driver, and as Crowley opens the front door to the opulent lobby Aziraphale catches a familiar smell: a familiar, cloyingly sweet odour, like rotting flowers, yet this one is tinged with a hint of sulphur. In front of him, Crowley’s shoulders edge up around his ears and he turns around, searching.

“Where are they?” Aziraphale demands, as Crowley looks around the busy street, jaw set and fists clenched. “They absolutely said they weren’t going to bother us!”

“And like idiots, we took their word for it.” Crowley yanks open the front door again, startling the doorman, and Aziraphale hurries along behind him. They bundle quickly into the elevator and walk quickly down the lushly carpeted hallway to their room. Crowley snaps his fingers so the door opens silently, and they walk in as quietly as they can manage.

Two beings, one angelic, one demonic, are in their room, having stern chats with the curtains, the windows, the covers. The angel is seriously focused on a pillow, and the demon is wiling away at the long, pale blue curtain that shades the glass balcony doors, and Aziraphale catches “-let us know, that’s a dear.”

They’re setting tripwires, using the furniture as alarms. Aziraphale is so incensed that before he even realizes what he’s planning, the beings are tied up right where they stand, wrists held with golden shackles. The demon hisses in discomfort, and the angel just looks...guilty. Righteous fire burns through him, fury manifesting his wings with a snap. Crowley shields his eyes. The angel and demon both cower slightly, and Aziraphale is smugly satisfied.

“Yep, well, now you’ve gone and done it, you two,” Crowley drawls, then walks around them carefully. “I mean, I could banish the two of you myself, but now you’ve got to deal with him, and, well. Hell hath no fury like...a, well, an angel scorned, I guess? I don’t know. But he’s pretty pissed off, yeah.”

“We’re just under orders,” the demon squeaks, then looks down. “Just to get the information, and pass it along. I sure don’t know what they want with it, just that I’m supposed to work with her to get it.”

The angel rolls her eyes. “This was your idea, moron. ‘Just set alarms on all the furniture, we can nip down to the bar and have a drink, no one will know.’ Now look what’s happened.”

The situation is so strangely close to his and Crowley’s own Aziraphale fights down a giggle as he furls his wings behind him. He straightens up and tries to look imposing. “I don’t care what you were told. I have a message to send back.” Aziraphale holds out his hands and, behind him, Crowley silently manifests fire in his palms, just far enough away from his skin as to not harm him. The angel and the demon’s eyes widen, and their mouths drop open.

“Oh Satan, I thought that was just a rumour,” the demon breathes. “Please don’t kill us!”

“You will remind your masters that we are not to be trifled with,” Aziraphale booms, his voice echoing unnaturally from the walls. The theatrics, the language, ought to scare them well enough, he thinks. “And the next time anyone bothers us, they shall be smited. Smoted. Smitten!” Aziraphale hears a snort and a chuckle behind him but daren’t crack any kind of a smile. “I cast thee out!” he says, and the angel and demon panic, clambering over each other and and the bed to escape toward the balcony as they realize their shackles have disappeared. Aziraphale miracles the angel into a dove and the demon into a crow as they run, and crosses the room to toss them out of the window. “And good riddance to you both!”

Aziraphale slams the door and turns back to the bed. Crowley has collapsed in giggles across the covers. “Smoted? That’s not even a word!” He laughs again, the sound so carefree and joyous it makes Aziraphale’s heart hurt.

“Well, I was sort of put on the spot,” he says, and quickly vanishes his wings, quickly clears the room of all strangely manifested alarms, then sits on the bed next to Crowley. His new ring twinkles in the low lamplight, and his chest feels tight all over again. “They were low ranking emissaries, not really worth truly harming.”

Crowley rolls over and props his head on his elbow. “You were magnificent, angel. Truly.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Was I? Thank you, dear.”

Crowley smiles and slides his hand up Aziraphale’s thigh. “Yes. Your wings are exquisite. And you were so ssssexy, taking charge like that.”

The sibilant s shivers down Aziraphale’s spine.“You flattering snake,” Azriaphale says, but even then he can feel the heat begin to pool low in his belly. “You don’t have to sweet talk me, you know.”

“Hmmm. But I mean it. I’m getting hard just lying here, remembering it.”

  
Aziraphale can feel an answering twitch in his trousers. Crowley’s sly smile, his golden, half-lidded eyes, his fingers tracing Aziraphale’s thigh; it’s all conspiring to spark arousal down his nerves. He leans over and pushes Crowley over onto his back and slowly unbuttons his shirt, before pressing a kiss to the skin as it’s revealed.

“Oh,” Crowley breathes. “But I can just - “

“No. I want to do it this way. Savour it. May I?” There’s something about doing things slowly, Aziraphale finds, that makes the moment impress itself onto his consciousness just that much more clearly, and tonight, the very first night of the rest of their lives, he wants to remember.

Crowley shivers as Aziraphale parts his shirt, then pushes it over his shoulders. His skin is golden in the lamplight, the harder edges of his body outlined in shadow. The muscles of Crowley’s stomach jump as Aziraphale draws his fingers over the dips and valleys, then Crowley positively gasps when Aziraphale unbuttons his trousers and pulls his zip down, then drags his nose down the open vee of his flies. His skin is warm and soft, his smell so different than the other, sulfurous demons Aziraphale has come into contact with. He’s been among humans so long now most vestiges of Hell have fallen away, and now he’s just Crowley, light of Aziraphale’s life and center of his world.

“Lift up for me, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, nuzzling against his erection where it is still trapped behind his underwear. “I want these off.”

“Oooh pushy, I like it,” Crowley snarks, then shoves his trousers and underwear off and lies back on the bed. “What are you going to do with me now, angel?”

Aziraphale considers. He wants everything, wants to be part of Crowley’s every breath, part of his very existence. He pushes Crowley’s wrists to the bed and watches, gratified, as his eyes widen and breath speeds up. He can feel words building up, ready to tumble out without pause, the Heavenly restraint he’d always felt now relaxed. “I want to be inside you,” he growls, then leans down to capture Crowley’s gasp with a deep kiss and whispers against his lips. “I want to fuck you, make you call out my name. Not...not God. Or Satan. Me.” He swallows heavily. “Please, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes are wide, the pupils split open so they’re almost round. He looks shellshocked, and Aziraphale wonders if he went too far until Crowley surges up, crashing into him and kissing him fiercely.

“You’re going to kill me with that mouth, angel,” he gasps, as their mouths smear together, messy, desperate, and Crowley drags his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair to clutch him close. “Get naked, would you?”

Aziraphale is done with slow, done with drawing it out. His newfound freedom is exhilarating, and he can miracle away his clothes without a peep from anyone Above, no rude notes or complaints or random visits. He settles between Crowley’s thighs and the first touch of skin on skin makes them both suck in a breath.

“Look at you,” Crowley purrs, hands sliding over Aziraphale’s back, settling to cup his shoulderblades. “My beautiful one. My own. My angel.”

Good heavens, the heat of him, the feel of his body against Aziraphale’s own, is intoxicating, but Aziraphale has other plans, plans that involve watching Crowley move, tall and proud, in his lap.

He rolls off and onto his back, and encourages Crowley to straddle him. Crowley gets the idea and reaches out to stroke Aziraphale’s cock with a smug little grin. Aziraphale groans.

“I love when you get me ready, but I'm not waiting,” Crowley says, then, with a wave of his fingers, he has a handful of lubricant which he smooths over Aziraphale’s cock, slick and warm. Then he carefully lines himself up and shimmies a little as he takes Aziraphale’s cock in one long, slow slide, a rush of heat that leaves Aziraphale panting, trying to keep himself in check.

...and the two have been made one flesh, he remembers. Human vows, human rituals. But still yet the union of souls. They may not be blessed, but Aziraphale can feel it, the connection between them that’s only grown stronger over the millennia, and now been spoken aloud, consummated, bonded.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his hands clutching Crowley’s thighs. “You feel perfect. Wonderful. My own, my own love. My...my...I want to say it, please.”

Crowley chokes a little, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he flexes his thighs and rocks on Aziraphale’s cock. “You are,” he gasps. “I’m yours, angel. For all of time. Your own spouse, your partner, your friend, your lover, your protector.”

“My own husband,” Aziraphale confirms. “If in no one’s eyes but our own.”

Crowley grasps his own cock, and begins to lift himself up further, dropping down on Aziraphale’s lap with a snap of skin on skin. “Getting so close, angel. So close. Tell me. Please. _Aziraphale_ , please.”

There it is, his own name spoken at the height of passion, the desperate love Crowley struggles to put into words bleeding out of Crowley’s soul. Aziraphale can feel his own orgasm starting to wind tight when he hears it, the endless loop of love given and received, and he grips Crowley’s hips and uses the leverage to rock his hips up and into Crowley’s downward strokes. It’s exquisite, the sensation pushing him inevitably toward the end. “I love you, Crowley. I love you.”

Crowley chokes out a cry, then is spilling over his own hand and onto Aziraphale’s stomach. The sensation drags his own orgasm forward and he barely has a moment to prepare before he’s coming, too, into the heat of Crowley’s body.

Crowley collapses against Aziraphale’s chest, still entwined. They’re a mess, the bed is a mess, but Aziraphale will deal with that later, once they have time to fully absorb the full meaning of what has just happened. Aziraphale looks at his hand again in the light, the emerald sparkling at him.

He’ll have to find one for Crowley, now.

“Got that in Rome, when we were there the first time," Crowley says, voice low. “Seemed fitting.”

0“It’s lovely. That makes it, what, two thousand years old?” Aziraphale contemplates the intricate, rope-like pattern on the gold. Two thousand years. So much has changed since then. And after a thousand years more, things will change even faster.

“A thousand years is a long time,” Aziraphale says. “If you ever tire of me…”

Crowley hushes him with a finger on his lips. “I’ll be tired of you when the seas boil, the sky has turned to blood, and the stars are extinguished into blackest night, how’s that?”

Aziraphale smiles. “And the Four Horsemen have arrived...again?”

“Yes,” Crowley says.

“So, basically never,” Aziraphale replies, and lets Crowley slide off so he can snuggle into Crowley’s side.

Crowley kisses his forehead and wraps Aziraphale in his arms. “Never,” Crowley confirms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is Aziraphale's ring, ](https://avgustaoktavia.tumblr.com/post/155296010067/gemma-antiqua-ancient-roman-gold-and-green) which Crowley got in Rome the FIRST time around. He's held onto it all these years, not exactly knowing why.  
> Divine plans, indeed.


End file.
